


Loss (or the lack thereof)

by BeesKnees



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 06:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4294044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeesKnees/pseuds/BeesKnees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finnick Odair loses his virginity to a client in the Capitol when he's fifteen. </p>
<p>When Annie Cresta is with Finnick, she loses nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss (or the lack thereof)

Mags had once said that she enjoyed meeting strangers because you never knew what role in your life a stranger might play. A chance meeting with someone, a chance of a glance, and years later, that person might be your everything. The person who saved your life, the one who was there when no one else was. But for a moment in time, he or she is still a stranger to you: full of infinite possibility, the textures of the universe too much to comprehend.

Annie likes this theory. It makes it a little easier to bear being around people she doesn't know. It makes it easier to push down that thick feeling in the back of her throat when she feels she's being mobbed.

(Of course, sometimes it doesn't make it easier. That theory has an inverse: You never know upon meeting someone what hell he or she could make your life. You don't know who will ruin you beyond repair, who will aim to swallow your heart whole.)

She doesn't share this viewpoint with Finnick because she doesn't think he will believe it and nor will it help him. Strangers are always a source of pain for him. (Despite the smiling facade.) Maybe it's because to the world, Finnick Odair is never a stranger. There can be no spontaneity when it comes to Finnick, not since he won his Hunger Games at fourteen, becoming a beloved of Panem. Everyone knows who he is. Everyone has an opinion on him already. By the time they meet him, they have intentions, whether good or evil or indifference. 

But she remembers her moment of infinite possibility with Finnick, although she doesn't think he does. (One day, she thinks, she will be brave enough to ask him: Do you remember me on that day? But maybe not, because it will hurt him if he doesn't, and why should he? She was one of out of so many, and the attention was all on him.) 

He was not sober that day; she knows him well enough to know that now, even if they have never discussed the day in question. 

He was eighteen. She was sixteen. 

At that time, he would spend one day each year with the Careers in training, showing them how to wield a trident. (This practice stopped after Annie won her games; it would be years until he admitted to Annie that he never hated himself more than when he was helping train Careers. He would take sleeping with Capitol citizens over telling children that there was something noble about going into the games, that they weren't brazenly throwing themselves into the grinding gears of the Capitol, shredded body or soul, and sometimes both.)

Even the most stalwart of Careers, the ones who were assured they would go into the games and pretended to be unafraid, were excited on the day that Finnick came to their class. (He was a legend after all. Finnick Odair was the standard to beat.) Most of them flocked right to the front, eager to be as close to Finnick as they could, eager to impressive him with their throws. Finnick gave his praise in smiles pairing it with a neat bundle of suggestions. 

Annie remained near the back, with the cluster of friends she trained with. They giggled and made their own observations about Finnick, plotting on how to get as close to him as possible. Annie didn't speak. She watched Finnick instead, was surprised to see how repetitious his actions were – the same smile every time, honed down to sharp edges. It was the only sign she had back then that it wasn't real. How perfect it was. 

She thought she would get out of having to practice, but when nearly everyone else had gone, he had turned and looked at her.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing her forward with a wave of his hand. She was pinned in place by the intensity of his gaze, but one of her friends shoved her forward. She stumbled on the sand. Behind her, the other girls giggled. Annie flushed but then made herself walk, taking step after step. And then she was right next to him. He handed her the trident. It was heavier than she had expected. Her hands couldn't balance it, and she fumbled with it, obviously. 

She told herself to breathe in, breathe out, just to throw the stupid thing so she could get this over with. But then Finnick slid closer to her. Suddenly, his broad chest was pressed flush against her back. She tensed, but he didn't seem to notice. (He had to have noticed, she thought. Finnick was perceptive, especially when it came to reading the set of people's bodies.) He lined his arm along hers, sliding her hand along the trident, firming up her grip. He readjusted the set of her feet with the warm press of his legs against hers.

“Like this,” Finnick said – and it was more breath than words. Annie could feel a red flush climbing up her neck, blotching her face. (The rest of the group had disappeared. For Annie, there was only Finnick Odair, too close, too warm.) Her knuckles went white against the trident – and then she threw it. It thudded against the edge of the target. She breathed out.

“Well done,” Finnick said, disengaged from her. She turned to look at him. He gave her that same perfect smile. 

She retreated quickly back to the edge of the group, became aware of the tittering again. (For the next three months, she and Finnick Odair are the only things the Careers can manage to talk about. A silly thread of an impossible narrative. But by the time the games spit her out more than a year later, no one remembers the day Finnick Odair touched her, least of all Finnick Odair.)

…

Annie squirms against the sheets of Finnick's bed. The first tinges of pink are just beginning to bleed onto the horizon, dabbling the blinds with a pale light. Annie squeezes her eyes shut, twists her head to the other side. She bites her lower lip and still can't stop the whimper in the back of her throat. 

Finnick runs a hand up over her belly, as if it will do anything to quell the noises. (Everyone else in the house is still asleep, but Annie doesn't want to test how heavy their sleeping habits are.) 

Finnick's head bobs in between her legs; he thrusts his tongue inside of her once again, his fingers skirting downward. She gasps and then arches up against him. Her vision whites out as she digs her fingers into the back of his scalp. 

Finnick presses soft kisses to the inside of her thighs and then her hips as Annie struggles to catch her breath. She finally manages to open her eyes again and looks down at him. He smiles at her, soft and quiet. (Not perfect. His dimples are barely visible.) 

She smooths her hand against the side of his face. He leans into the touch and then shifts back up along the bed. He kisses her, hard, his body flush against hers. She tries to wrap her arms around him, but then he is gone. He pulls away, rolling to the side of the bed, and getting to his feet. She waits for the inevitable excuse of where he's going, what he's going to do, but doesn't really hear it. Just nods. She pulls the sheets back up around her body as she watches him go, retreating into the bathroom. The door closes. The shower starts to run, the water a nothing sort of noise. 

She tries to swallow around the thick feeling in the back of her throat. She had known this wasn't going to be easy. 

She had confessed her feelings for him about two months ago, whispered in the salty air of early morning. He had pulled away. He had _left_ her down there on the beach, alone, and she cried – for three days straight, refusing to come back out of her room. Since the Hunger Games, nothing had felt right, but then there had been Finnick, and he had felt right always. He was the only who didn't treat her as if she was something fragile, a bomb ready to go off. He was the only person she could still laugh with, the only one who could wash away the fragments of Hunger Games memories that pierced through her. And now he was gone, and she was the one who had driven him away.

But then he had shown back up, and he had apologized, and he had begged, and he had told the truth: He liked her too; he didn't belong to himself. 

She had been horrified by his confession, hadn't known what to say at all. It made sense, of course it did. Why would a man who killed children for the entertainment of the nation have any qualms about selling those same children for profit? 

And so Finnick had said, _You see why this can't work between us_.

And she had said, _No, because I still want to try_. And then paused and added, _If you want to_. 

He hadn't said anything for the longest time, and her heart had battered away at her ribcage. Then, he had leaned in and kissed her. 

And maybe if this was the stuff of stories, their persistence and love would have been enough to chase away all of their insecurities – that she doesn't feel good enough for him, and he doesn't feel good enough for her. But because it isn't, they're stuck in this odd place, and Annie doesn't know how to bridge the gap. He touches her all the time. As long as she says _okay_ and _yes, please_ , he will touch her until there isn't air in the world and her entire body is buzzing with a pleasure she's never known before. But then that's it: She'll reach for him, and he'll disappear. He's never more than taken his shirt off in front of her – which is something the entirety of the nation can claim. 

She knows she needs to be patient. She knows that; she can't even begin to imagine what has been done with Finnick, knows it's a miracle in and of itself that he's even willing to try _this_ with her. 

But he doesn't talk to her about what's wrong. His work in the Capitol is this taboo subject. 

So he touches her, he pulls away. In the beginning that was okay, but now she's begun to feel like she's nothing more than … a client.

Tears well up, hot, in the corners of her eyes. She tries to stop them, but they come all the same. She balls her hands up and pushes her fists against her face. She loves him so much. 

The water in the bathroom turns off. Annie drops back down against the bed. She pretends to be asleep. When Finnick comes back out, he pauses. He kisses the side of her head gently and then walks downstairs.

…

_Finnick Odair is fifteen the first time he is slipped into Savera Aldjoy's bed._

_He is flushed with pride and pleasure and alcohol, brought from the dance floor of his own Victory Party. It is nearly two in the morning, and Finnick's head buzzes with everything he's seen – everyone who has praised him, everyone who has commented on_ oh, what an amazing victor he is _. He is unlike anything the world has seen before, that is what they tell him._

_The upstairs of the Aldjoys' mansion is quiet and calm compared to the party that still rages downstairs. (A switch from tradition. His Victory Tour doesn't stop at the presidential mansion, which was done, supposedly, to keep the atmosphere more festive, less formal.) He hears a shriek of laughter, the pound of the music ongoing. But it is faint. They are in a different world here – he, and President Snow, and Savera Aldjoy – the woman who bought him his trident, the trident that saved his life and won him his crown._

_He knows why he's here. (And yet, he doesn't, not at all.)_

_He's here to be grateful._

_Snow is standing close to Savera, a hand tucked again her lower back. Her dress is intimidating, the bottom full of golds and silvers and whites, all done in blown-out tulle and lace, made to take up as much space as possible. The top is sleek though, metallic blues of all shades. She is a mimic of the ocean, done up in celebration of him. He can't tell if her hair is real or not (which means it's not), dark and elaborately but loosely curled, falling in soft waves down to her waist. She wears a strand of pearls around the crown of her head. Nothing she wears is done in the shape of his trident, but it doesn't need to be. Everyone knows how much she spent on that trident for him. He has been done to match her, his suit so white that it's terrifying. The waves on his suit are hand-painted, blotted and blending carefully to highlight the motions of his body. The lining is the bold gold that has come to be associated with him. He has no shirt on underneath the suit, and his chest is swathed in a gold glitter that has stood up surprisingly well throughout the night._

_Snow smiles at him once again and then is gone._

_It is just him and Savera, and the noise from the party fades so completely that Finnick can't hear anything aside from his own breathing._

_Savera crosses the space between them, the fabric of her skirt swishing together and across the carpet. She places one hand, gently, against Finnick's chest, just over his heart._

_“Look at you,” she breathes. And Finnick doesn't know what to say to this, feels both shy and encouraged at the same time. (Everyone, everyone here, comment on how he looks, and he doesn't know what to say this, has never thought twice about how he smiles or holds himself until, suddenly, everyone just wants, wants, wants more of that. It's intoxicating and intimidating at the same time. He has this power he didn't know he had. And it has won him the Hunger Games and now the Capitol.)  
But Savera is no longer looking at his face anyway. She stares at where her hand is pressed against his chest. She slides her palm against his flesh, her fingers tucking underneath his jacket. They trace over his ribs, over the place where the knife had sliced through his flesh during that final battle. The mark is erased, long since healed over, but Savera touches his body as if she _ knows _all the same._

_“We're going to make you the most memorable victor to ever step foot into the Capitol,” she breathes out, looks at him again. Her eyes are bright, a flush breaking through her makeup. “The world is yours now.”_

_Again, he doesn't know what to say, but he doesn't let that show. He thinks,_ haven't we made this history _? He's a victor, the youngest ever, and the Capitol loves him. What else is there to do now? (He's never considered this part before; who has? No Career thinks past that moment of winning inside the arena.) All he knows is that he's supposed to want this._

_He tilts his head, smiles, and nods. She smiles right back at him, her mouth curving plumply. She bites, just slightly, into her own lower lip as she studies him. She runs a hand around the back of his neck, her nails dragging slightly across the exposed skin and then she leans in and finally kisses him. It's feather light at first, but turns bruising quickly as she devours his mouth. Finnick doesn't know what to do with his hands, isn't quite sure he's even moving his lips or tongue correctly. He's sneaked only a few kisses with the girls of Four, done on the beach after lazy summer days spent swimming._

_This is nothing like that._

_Savera steps closer to him (how is that possible?) and he feels her legs, her hips, flush against his, even with all the fabric of her dress. She bites at his mouth and then takes one of his hands and places it against her waist. He leaves it there, against the cold metal of the dress, even though some part of his brain is saying that he should probably move it. (But where?)_

_She breaks off the kiss and presses her thumb just underneath his lower lip. (His mouth feels swollen.) Oddly, he feels more out of his depth here than he did the entire time he was in the arena. (Which isn't to say he wasn't more afraid there.) Immediately, he is frustrated with himself. This is just a kiss. What will follow will just be sex. He is supposed to want these things. He is a victor; he is supposed to be good at these things, so he will be._

_She steps away, smiles at him over her shoulder, and walks through a doorway. He follows her into the bedroom. She still has her back turned to him, and he reaches, implicitly, to start undressing her. (There are so many zippers and hooks keeping the whole thing together, but Finnick manages all the same. He keeps looking up at her, and she just watches him over her shoulder, eyes hooded. He is so intent on this task that it comes almost as a surprise when she is naked in front of him. She turns toward him. Again, Finnick is taken aback._

_He's a Career. Bodies are bodies, made for work and endurance. But hers isn't. Hers is made for this. (Is his made for this too?) Finnick flushes, uncertain where to look. He feels warm all over, in a way that is different from the alcohol._

_“Come here,” she commands. He goes. She kisses him again, all bruising force this time. He endeavors to keep up, smooths a hand against the side of her neck. She laughs into his mouth and then her hands dive down to push off his suit jacket before sliding down to the waistband of his pants._

_…_

_He wakes up late in the morning in a strange bed, by himself. He's wrapped in a sheet and blinks groggily for a few minutes before remembering where he is. The room seems larger than it did last night, with sunlight streaming in. His head feels heavy and a dull headache throbs in one of his temples. He closes his eyes again, but then stretches._

_He wonders where Mags is. He realizes that he has no idea where she wound up for the night, or even what she was told when he suddenly disappeared. She'll be angry._

_He sits up slowly, tentatively, first confirming that he definitely is alone and second, that his clothes are nowhere to be seen. His eyes stray over to where the suit had been dropped on the floor a few hours ago._

_Everything had felt … fine last night, he supposes. He hadn't known what to expect, and he hopes he did all right. It was difficult to tell, although Savera had offered a few suggestions, which he had always jumped to fulfill. How successful he was, he's not sure. She had just smiled when they were through, caught his chin in her hands, and pressed a kiss to his forehead._

_Somehow, he had expected … more. He doesn't know what he thinks there should have been. It hadn't been exactly unpleasant, but sex had always been this strange thing he had felt tugged toward, but had no idea how to explain or know how to act upon. Now, he's on the other side of things and he wonders what all the fuss was about. Is that it? Should there be more? Is it because he had done something wrong? Does it get better? Will he get better?_

_He has no one he can ask these questions to. He suspects Savera would laugh at him. (And even that notion makes him feel childish, which he isn't, not anymore. He's a victor.) Mags would be enraged if she found out that he had slept with someone after the party. No, this whole thing will have to be kept a secret from her. She dislikes the president enough as it is – sometimes the way she speaks about him and the Capitol is astonishing to Finnick. But it's always been something he's associated with her being old. She doesn't know any better. They live in one of the most prosperous times of the world._

_He gets up and heads into the bathroom. Some of the gold is still swathed upon his chest. It looks ridiculous now. He scrubs it off with handfuls of water – and then tries to get his hair to go back to normal. It's sticking up strangely. Bruises litter his shoulders, and he presses his fingertips to them, testing the tenderness of them._

_A fresh set of clothes is laid out for him, folded with crisp lines. He tugs everything on. It feels too small now, and he wonders if all his clothes will be like this from now on._

_…_

_Finnick's eighteenth birthday is a raucous affair. Everybody in the Capitol is invited, and even some of the higher officials in One and Two. The Aldjoys' mansion overflows. Each room is filled to the brim with people and drinks and food, and the gardens are the same. Water feature are in nearly every space, and fish, which have been engineered for their aesthetic qualities, swim in small circles, glittering and glowing quietly. They will be dead by morning._

_Finnick has two drinks before even arriving, and is slipped two pills, custom and designer, on his way through the doorway. His body buzzes pleasantly, making everything swirl into a mass of bright colors and sounds._

_He's wearing a shirt tonight, no jacket, but the shirt is made thin enough to see his skin underneath. Even inch of him is painted in blue and gold, lines that accent the strips of muscles that have become more toned over the years. His lips are coated in a gold sugar and everyone keeps leaning in to kiss him or lick the sugar off, giggling and smiling at him. (His lips have been done up over fifty times tonight, his stylist slipping in to dab at him.)_

_Snow stops in around midnight, gives a champagne toast as fireworks explode in the background. (“This is all for you, Finnick,” Savera whispers into his ear.)_

_This is to be a weekend affair, and he doubts he'll get much sleep. Somewhere around 5 a.m., the first leg of the party starts to wind down. The servants rush to pick up deserted plates and drinks, to clear out the mess so they can start setting up for breakfast. Most of the party guests have retired to rooms to sleep for a few hours, to change clothes, but some are sprawled across couches and pushed up into chairs._

_Savera finds him. He expects to be taken to the bedroom, but instead she leads him into the nearest room: the library. Her hands are soft against his, and he runs his fingers along the inside of her palm in the way he knows she likes._

_She kicks off her heels, one after another, and settles down into the plush chair in front of the grand desk. Finnick has never seen either Savera or her husband use this room for its actual purpose. He stays where he is for a few moments, allowing Savera to admire him, her eyes dragging over his body from head to toe. Her gaze lingers on his sugar-coated lips, on the set of his shoulders, on his hips. He's grown up under her touch, his body becoming broader, more well-defined. On his Victory Tour, he was the same height as her and now he towers above her. (She delights in this, likes when he is a little rough with her. She likes her power to be tested just so she can be reminded that it's there: pressed and fucked against walls, held down when they're in bed together. Just the taste of a threat, but with no actual backbone.)_

_“Look at you,” Savera breathes._

_Finnick smiles, dimples deepening. Only then does he go to her, dropping down on his knees. She spreads her legs obligingly, lets out a sigh, and drops her head back against the chair as he rucks up her skirt. He licks into her and then teases her with his fingers and tongue. He keeps everything quick, because she will not want things to linger at this hour of the morning. He already knows that when she finishes, she'll bring him off with her hand, thinking this a gift to him, proud at how well she knows his body. And his body will obey, but he won't get any joy out of the act. Here's the secret that he knows well now: There's nothing else. His pleasure fizzles so sharp and so short that it feels more like pain. His body is a thing made for this, and he hates every instant of it, his brain at war with the rest of him; why do you do this; why do you react; how can you still do this? Only the numbness of the drugs can quiet that quell for a little, enough silence that he can get off and move on without the urgent need to destroy himself._

_But that destructive edge has grown closer and closer. He finds himself looking at the pills and the powder that are passed to him. How much would he actually have to take to make himself feel nothing any longer?_  
…

Sometimes, they slip into one of the Victors' houses that haven't been claimed yet. They have places like this, sprinkled throughout Four, where they can go when they want to be alone. Sometimes, Annie'll read to him by candlelight and sometimes they'll just hold each other. Sometimes it's just enough to know they can be alone.

She is nestled back into a heap of blankets and he's pressed up against her left side, his fingers pushing in and out of her. Annie feels like she can't breathe, as if the entire world has been condensed to the push and pull of his fingers. Her hips keep jerking down against the feel of it, and she wants to beg him for more. She's not content with this. 

She runs her hands along his face, watches him watching her. (Does he want this? She looks for it now, and she's surprised, and hurt, in turn to find that she can't tell. She's so afraid that he _doesn't_.) She bucks up against him and then catches his mouth in a kiss. He murmurs softly into it, the only sign that he wasn't expecting her to do that. 

“Annie,” he whispers against her temple when the kiss breaks. He rarely calls her by any of the pet names he uses so frequently in the Capitol: _honey, sweetheart, love_. “Let go.”

But she keeps fighting off her orgasm, because she doesn't want him to retreat. She tries to keep her hips still, tries to ignore the heat that's unfurling in her belly. She wants him here. She wants to keep him close, and as soon as this is over, he'll go away again. Tears well in the corners of her eyes, but then--

“Oh,” Annie gasps, and she can't hold off anymore. She bites at her lips and gives into the sensation, shaking against the blankets. She comes back to herself only when he presses a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth and starts to pull away. She makes a strange sound in the back of her throat and reaches for him again, catching him before he can get far. 

He looks back down at her. His expression is unreadable and terrifies Annie. She tightens her hands around him to keep them from shaking. 

“What's wrong?” he asks. He smooths one hand against the side of her face. (She misses the creases that appear on his forehead when she turns her face in against his palm. She kisses his lifeline.) She doesn't know how to say this to him, doesn't know how to not sound ridiculous. But in the same breath, all she's wanted from him in the last few weeks is for him to _talk_ to her. She doesn't understand what's happening. 

“Why can't I touch you?” she asks. Her voice is small. 

She _feels_ the tension ripple through his body. The mask goes back on, his shoulders tense. He pulls his hand away from her face. For a moment, she's scared that he's going to leave completely. But he just sits back on the blanket and then sighs. She wants to go after him, but she doesn't know if touching him will scare him off more or not, so she remains where she is.

“Finnick,” she says, and her voice sounds a little stronger, although no less scared. “I love you. I won't hurt you.” 

He looks at her again and shakes his head. (He does this when he's thinking something that he feels he can't say. He did the same thing when she said she liked him; he thought he couldn't return those feelings so he kept them silence, as if denying them would blink them out of existence.) 

So, no, that's not it: He's not afraid of her hurting him. She sits up slowly and reaches out one hand, pressing it gently on top of his. 

“Please,” she says. “Please talk to me, Finnick.” 

“I don't want you to touch me,” Finnick says. His voice is low, barely audible, and he doesn't look at her. His eyes are fixed somewhere across the room. Anywhere but her. 

The words pinch at Annie's heart. Her throat swells shut for a moment, and she thinks she won't be able to speak again. She had known that she was inexperienced in this compared to Finnick, but she hadn't thought that he minded.

“What's wrong with me?” Annie gets out, each word strained and warbling. 

His head shoots up and he stares at her, desperation cleanly painted on his features.

“No,” he says immediately, shakes his head and presses his hand back to the side of her face. “There's nothing wrong with you. I--” he breaks off and has to start over. “I'm the one whose wrong. My body is...” _made for this. A weapon_. “... and I don't want to expose you to that.”

He tries to smile, but it's sad. 

“I like that I can do this for you though. Give you something. Some pleasure.”

Annie stares at him, that sad and earnest smile that she's learned is the truest representation of who he is. He wants to be liked, so much. And she can only imagine young fourteen-year-old Finnick Odair walking into the poisonous Capitol, ready to give away whatever he could for the hope of being loved. They have used everything against him.

Even Annie forgets just how much of him is pretended. Even she – who has seen the bruises he comes back home with and knows how different he is when he's here, with her – forgets how _hard_ this whole mess actually is for him, and just how completely they have struck at the heart of what he is. He pretends he's okay, and she believes it most of the time and forgets to question it all of the time. 

She starts crying without meaning to, high-pitched little sobs that she tries to hide into her clenched fists.

“ _Annie_ ,” he says, alarmed. He closes the distance between them and pulls her in for a hug. She doesn't fight him. 

“What is it?” he asks and she can hear in his voice that he thinks something he's said has set her off.

She pulls back enough so that she can see his face when she answers – because she wants him to see that she's sure of this, that there's no doubt. 

“I hate how much they've hurt you,” Annie answers. She already knows he will be embarrassed by this response, will want to shy away, but she keeps him in place. She presses a hand to his face. She can't help where his gaze goes, but she tries to keep him as centered on her as possible.

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Finnick,” Annie murmurs. “But I want you. All of you. You're not taking anything from me. This should be something we share. And if you don't want it – any of it – we're going to stop. I don't need this part of it to know I love you.” Her voice gets stronger the longer she speaks, because she knows her words are right. This in-between, this effort to preserve her innocence, is going to destroy both of them. They jump together or not at all. He's treated her like a client all this time because he thinks this is what people want: pleasure above everything else, even at the expense of others. But she doesn't want that. She wants _him_. She wants _their experience_. If he can't do that, that's fine. But if they can, she wants to show him what it means to be loved and considered when it comes to the physical.

He doesn't say anything for a long moment and then, finally, “You're too good for me, you know.”

“No,” Annie answers stalwart. She picks up each of Finnick's hands and presses her lips to his palms, each in turn.

“Together or not at all,” she says. She smiles softly at him.

“All right,” he relinquishes. He picks up each of her palms and kisses them as well. He presses a warm but soft kiss to her lips and murmurs, “Together or not at all.”


End file.
